The Kingslayer
by A Big Spooky Ck
Summary: (Based off a playthrough of Shadow of Mordor.) In the years before the end of Sauron at the hands of the Fellowship, there was a time where orcs fought and battled against one man, one Gravewalker. This is their story, and of how one orc rose above them all. To become the one to slay the Tark. To become, the King Slayer. Rated T For Blood, Gore, and Language.


_A/N: Heyoo folks,its been a while. After losing Reddit's Scramble tournament, with aspirations of winning the next one when it arrives in a bit, I've decided to try writing a little Shadow of Mordor story based on my own expierences. Without further ado, lets go._

 _Disclaimer: I do not own Shadow of Mordor or Shadow of War. I only own this story, the personalities of each character's and so forth._

* * *

 **Chapter 1: The Coming of the Tark**

Mordor: a land of darkness, and villainy. Even in the day, the sun's rays were hidden behind foreboding clouds as smoke arose all over. The dry ground was covered with the dried blood of those unfortunate enough to be captured by the dastardly inhabitants of this land. Legends often told of this dark land, of Sauron's deadly rule, and of his vile servents, the orcs.

Twisted, disgusting creatures created from the broken minds and bodies of once graceful elves. Now, instead of creating music, and art, the Orcs spend their days engaging in rotten deeds, killing for sport and entertainment as they loot and plunder for their Dark Lord. Many would wonder if the rough skinned barbarians were truely as bad as the legends tale. In truth, they were not.

"'Oy, mate! Pass another round of grog over to my lad here!" In that land of ruined towers, and villainy, a deep, jovial voice called out to his comrades. Standing at the very end of a long, crude wooden table, was a tall orc. His pale skin was patchy, almost rotting as he drunkenly pointed about, a pointed helm on his bald head as he laughed. "Another mug for a magnificent bastard!"

 _They were worse._

This table was one of five, scattered around in the shadow of a large, imposing, yet unfinished gate. Its pointed garrisons threatened to impale the sky as a vile symphony of rancorous laugher was heard echoing across the barren wasteland of Udun, the foothills of Mordor. Dozens of armored, tall, imposing figures were laughing heartily at each other, some engaging in a brawl as gaunt, scared, near naked figures shuffled around them: Humans, forced into servitude.

One such man, his body bruised, stumbled to try and deliver a barrel of a bubbling substance to one of the Orcs, before he felt his foot collide against a protruding rock as he slipped, his eyes widening in surprised. Tripping, his body collapsed into the cold hard ground as he looked up, watching the brown contents splash unceremoniously onto an orc.

A silence overcame the festivities as the man felt dozens of beady, glaring eyes state at him as a laugh came from behind him.

"Ohoho," The sickeningly deep laugh of the same drunken orc from before echoed in the terrified man's ear as the man struggled to get up. "Mate, you ruined-"

The orc belched, the disgusting sound echoing as the orc continued to vilely taunt the poor man.

"You just ruined the feast!" The orc whined, his thick meaty hands shoving the man down as he forced him to look at the Orc he spilled grog on. "Especially for the uh, new bum here. Snag? Snog?"

"Snagog!" The orc himself yelled, grunting as he got up, grog dripping off him. The man found himself forced to look at the figure: a skinny, tall orc, his flesh a pale, sickly green color, covered in a small series of scratches. His dark,unruly red hair was matted to his skin, while his long nose jutted out, drops of grog falling from the very end of his pointed nose. There was a violent, dealthy glare in his yellow eyes as he growled. His gangly hands grasped a rusty scimitar at the waist of his ripped, leather pants.

The larger, rounder orc gave a laugh as he saw Snagog twitchingly shake his sword about, grinning evily at the human. Despite being incredibly drunk, the fat orc certainly knew how foolish the orc looked.

"You twat, you gonna stand around there posturing like a bloody idiot?" The orc taunted, vile laughter following his insult as the other orcs snickered, equally as amused. "Or are you gonna actually prove your worth as a bloody orc of the Black Gate?"

The laughter grew even harder now as Snagog scowled, before giving out an incredibly annoyed roar.

"Oh piss off you bastards, I'll show you my worth!" With a nasally, annoyed yell, the orc, done with his rant, quickly brought his eyes back to the twitching, horrficied human below him. With a grin, he raised his sword, ignoring the pleas of the filthy scum before slamming it down. The rusty flesh struggled to cut through the neck of the screaming man as Snagog forcefully pushed it down, crimson blood spraying the ground.

Moments after painstakingly sawing through the bone of the human, Snagog gleefully grasped the long, blood stained hair of the man as he swung his head up with a pleased laugh. Holding out his arms, his blood soaked sword in one hand, and the driping head in the other, he accepted a round of applause from the amsued orcs, the drunken fools happily offering their own mugs to the orc.

In the midst of his bloodlust, Snagog felt a rough hand pat his back as he turned to face the disgustingly round face of the drunken taunter from before. Upon seeing the fat orc's smile, Snagog laughed as he let the orc tearfully congratulate him.

"Oh, oh you bastard you!" The orc drunkenly weeped, pleased with the other orc's could smell the rotten, yet satisfying taste of grog in his words as the orc continue to babble. "I, I knew you had it in ya! Old Rug here, why I knew that you weren't a yellow bellied bastard LIKE SOME OTHERS!"

His clouded eyes gazed above them, Snagog looking up as he faintly saw hooded figures patrolling the scaffolding of the unfinished gates, the light from several, metal arrows reflecting in his eyes. Suddenly, Rug grasped him, tearing him away from the scene as the orc pointed at a single cot haphazardly placed at the very end of the scaffolding.

"And boy, you're, you're," He belched loudly, his hand twitching as he pointed at the cot, his clouded eyes holing a tinge of anger. "You're bloody better than your oh so great captain! Uggu the Brave, Uggu the Magnificent, Uggu the BLOODY BASTARD!"

He gave out a cry, grasping a nearby mug as he downed the grog, the liquid splashing onto his face as he sighed, continuing to hold onto an equally angry Snagog.

"You, you pal, you've got some, uh, bloody potential!" Rug stammered, spit flying out of his mouth as he spoke. "Uggu, oh great Bloody Uggu up there, won't leave that damn wall until everything's bloody perfect for the Dark Lord! Bastard thinks that working with the Black Hand makes him his blood equal!"

A sudden melancholy overtook Rug as the fat Orc let go of Snagog, the orc gasping for air the fat drunk continued to eye the cot.

"'Oy, the arsehole wasn't always so bloody pathetic. Old Uggu used to be the top captain, almost as strong as the damn warchiefs' themselves. Poor bastard though got tossed into wall duty like the rest of us damn...bloody.." His eyes glazed over, Rug collapsing onto the floor unceremoniously.

Snagog quickly eyed him, before shrugging. The fat fool wasn't his problem. And so, lightly kicking the drunk, Snagog quickly joined the others in the festivities, drinking away as he downed mug after mug of grog. His mind soon grew clouded with dreams and aspirations, of surpassing all before him.

"When I'm done with," Snagog belched after yet another glass . "This, I'll be the new fucking Dark Lord! You'll all bloody see!"

His fellow orcs drunkenly agreed with him, laughing and cheering as their rowdy cries echoed across the gate. Yet high above them, standing among the shoddy construction and the cold winds, was a more somber scene, one that would be expected of the Dark Lord's warriors. Lines of crossbow wielding orcs silently patrolled the platforms, unable to partake in the wild festivities.

There was no noise aside from the creaks of the wooden scaffolding as a figure wordlessly observed them, his yellow eyes constantly shifting between the nefarious feast below him, and his anxious, bored and silent archers all around him. The orc himself seemed rather simple: an orange, muscular fellow, brown ripped pants at his feat, a leather straps draped across his shirtless body, and a drippinglongsword sheathed behind him, oil dripping from the long, sharp blade. His face,with its sharp ears, thin blond hair and small nose were covered with an assortment of battle scars.

His eyes suddenly spotted a sudden shift in the archers' pattern as he saw one skinny, tired looking orc attempt to cautiously sneak away from the repetitive, boring patten. His Captain couldn't blame him: Gate Duty was incredibly boring these days. Yet regardless, the Dark Lord needed bodies for his grand empire. And yellow belly cowards were certainly not going to get any exceptions.

""Oy!" The orange orc's jaw jutted forward, spit flying out of his mouth as his booming voice echoed throughout the construction zone. The other archers all halted in their tracks, watching the furious figure stomp over to the frozen orc. His twitching hand jutted forward, grasping the smaller orc's scrawny neck as he held the weakling over the platform. "I've warned you that I don't accepted cowards on my wall!"

The other orc continued to panic and shake, kicking his legs in the air as his panicked eyes stared at the cold hard ground below them. He could only let out a guttural cry as the orange orc continued to squeeze on his wind pipes.

"Why did Lord Sauron give me such a pitiful lot!' The orc bellowed angrily, glaring all around him as he continued to choke the orc. "Cowards! Thieves! Bastards, the lot of you! If I had my way, I'd-"

His dark commands soon ceased as a slimy, soft chuckle. A cold air had entered the scene, barging in like a worm slithering into a long dead corpse. The orange orc turned his head, giving a soft sigh at the figure before him. A pale, almost blue colored orc stood in front of him, almost as lanky as the orc he held in his hand. His strange attire, leather straps covered with an assortment of bones, set him apart from the other orcs as his cold blue eyes inspected his comrade from beneath his dark, face covering hood.

"Captain Uggu." The orc greeted, creeping closer to the leading orc as he continuously chuckled behind his black scarf. "A word, if you will, Brave One?"

A snort was given in response as Uggu walked towards his fellow orc, callously dropping his unfortunate victim behind him as the poor fool screamed, his voice carrying across the walls before he splattered onto the floor. The orange captain didn't seem to bat an eye to the sound as he crossed his arms.

"Zog the Knife. What the hell are you doing in these parts?' Despite the harsh tone, a wide grin was on his face as he embraced the other orc, the two pounding each other's backs. They shared a laugh before the orange orc continued. Despite the friendly embrace, the two shared a rather cold, silent glare. Each seemed ready to grab the blades at their side as they spoke. "You know Mogg leaves the Gate to me. I don't need a new captain and his cronies to fucking babysit."

Zog gave a toothy smile behind his scarf as he held out his hands, laughing.

"Uggu, pal, you don't have to worry!" The pale skinned orc assured him. "Our Grand Warchief Mogg wanted his little twin to take my place, so he's havin' me camp out near the Black Road. Not that I mind. The Big Shrakh himself wants a little hunting party to get some Caragor, so I'm happy to oblige the bastard, if he'll actually let me live in a damn stronghold."

Uggu gave a scowl. Of course that damn Mogg would send a new captain his way. Bastard always gave him the bottom of the shrakh filled barrel: Lazy recruits, constant half assed grog to keep them rowdy, and ambitious Captains thinking they're the next big warchief.

He gave a lazy wave, rolling his eyes in exasperation. Let the fool have his little hunt, get his little moment of power. Orcs these days didn't have the discipline he was used to: these weren't the orcs of the Black Army. These were fools hungry for power given to them by the Dark Lord.

"Take a few of those bastards down there and get out of my sight." Uggu demanded, scowling as he turned away. "I've got to make sure there aren't any of those damn rangers running about. We found that filthy Tark hiding in the towers. Bastard learned not to mess with us!"

He gave a boisterous laugh, before turning to see Zog already walking away, ignoring his superior officer's tales of magnificent battles! Furious, the orc's hand went to a rusty machete at his side as he threw it. The weapon tore through the air, the hatchet landing squarely in a pole next to the pale orc as splinters splashed onto his hood.

Frozen in shock, Zog stood still in a quiet panic as Uggu gave out a roar.

"Next time you bastard, listen to me!"

The hooded orc scowled, silently trying to shake off his fear as he climbed down the ladder. His mind was a whirlpool of thoughts, all plotting to give the orange fool his just deserts.

A paranoid fool like him isn't fit to stay in charge, he thought, his brain bubbling with fury. The only thing the Shrakh did was be the Black Hammer's bodyguard. Big Deal, he's bodyguard for someone as strong as the Dark Lord himself.

His cold eyes trailed to a group of some sober looking orcs, eagerly watching some rowdy ginger haired fool claim about being the future Dark Lord. Vultures, of sorts. Ready to pick up anything from a few violent fights caused by the drunken lads before them. They still had their wits and weapons about them: so they would do.

"Alrght you scoundrels!" He called to them, snapping out of their intense watching as he waved a rusty knife in the air. "Your Big Boss Uggu said I can take some of you bastards out for a hunt. So you're coming with me unless you want to deal with that oaf!"

The group, annoyed as they were,were smart enough to know that angering Uggu was a pointless, harmful endeavor. Zog, of course, believed his pure charisma managed to charm the lot into following him as he led the reluctant party away from the commotion.

Unlike the hustle and bustle of the Black Gate, the Road was much more barren. Patches of grey grasses were splotched against the dark ground as Zog led his troop through the dirty, rubble covered path.

"Alright you bastards!" The knife wielding orc called as his blue eyes caught something. "You three, you're with me. The rest of you, sod off and try lookin' around from that cliff over there, with all them war-machines."

His gloved hand pointed ahead, where a once magnificent white tower stood. Half of it was destroyed, its once beautiful marble columns now lying in ruin along the ground. An ancient ballista, and some sort of catapalt, were haphazardly placed around it, their wooden frames rotting away. Once, they may have been great weapons, yet now, simply testaments to a war long past.

Zog didn't care. The past was a load of rubbish: the future, with himself at the top, that's where its at!

He slung himself down a small ravine, walking over to a makeshift tent placed haphazardly near the face of the small cliff. With only a small chest, a few unlit torches and a table with some rather loose paper, this was clearly the best spot to plan out a hunt. He watched as six of the orcs make their way over to the tower, scowling as he heard their distant complaints and groans.

"I'll gut the lot of you if you fools mess this up for me!" His raspy, slick voice called as he heard a faint groan. He muttered some foul curses under his breath, before eying the three orcs standing around idiotically, looking around. "Well don't just bloody stand there! Do something!"

As the four of them began to inspect the meager supplies they had, within a few minutes, Zog sworn he heard some sort of scream, a cry for help. He scowled, shaking his head. Some sort of trick of course. The cowards loved to try and trick him, to try and scare him. He listened intently, and upon hearing nothing, happily went back to polishing his precious knife.

He was unprepared for what came next, for something suddenly struck his comrade at the entrance, the orc following over in a bloody slump as the others shot up, looking over.

"The bloody hell happened?" One of the orcs yelled, whipping out his own scimitar as he urgently ran up to the body, crouching. His eyes scanned the dead orc, before he turned, fear in his red eyes. "Boss, this lad's gotten shot!"

No sooner did he say this did a sudden flash of blue light up the tent, something rocketing towards them before embedding itself in the skull of the unfortunate orc. As Zog struggled to cover his eyes, he swore he saw the faint outline of a blue arrow in the head of the bastard, before it suddenly disappeared, leaving only a large, gaping wound.

His eyes darted around as he held out his knife. What elven sorcery was this? Was this the doing of another orc? What the hell was happening?

"Boss!" A whisper tore him out of his thoughts as stared, baffled as he saw his final lacky hide behind the paper thin walls of the tent, peeking out of the entrance. "I..I think thats a bloody Tark out there!"

Curious, and utterly confounded, the hooded orc carefully peeked out of the entrance, staring at the end of the ravine. Indeed, a lone, black figure stood, a flowing cape behind his as he walked. A long sword, one that shone like the sun, flashed into Zog's eyes as he scowled, holding up his hands.

"What are you talking about, you daft fool! No Tark can do such..such..SORCERY!" He gave a wild shriek, unable to see before he soon heard something fly by, before yet another body slumped to the floor nearby. Realizing that he was all alone, the lone captain gave a cry as he charged out, waving his knife aroud wildly. All that cold , calculated threats, all of that deep ambition. Gone.

 _He just wanted to live._

"Where are you!?" He cried, flailing around like a fool, his eyes still closed shut. He couldn't die! He was going to be the Bloody Lord of Middle Earth! "Where are you, you damn Sorcerer bastard!"

A hand suddenly touched his back as he froze. It was soft, unlike any orc hand he had ever felt. A deep, assertive, commanding pressence came from the force behind him as he heard a smooth, deep voice. It was neither gravely , nor raspy, like that of an orc's. It was cold..chilling..frozen. Like that of a ghost, risen from the grave to release a hurricane of revenge.

"Right here." The man whispered.

Right then, in a brief, bloody moment, Zog found himself pushed to the ground, his head smashing agaisnt the hard rock as he felt his black blood flood from an open wound. He gave out a cry, tears pouring from his eyes as he turned, trying to prevent the inevitable, trying to save his life, his dreams, his ambitions.

Yet not even dreams could stop the cold, hard steel of a blade plunging into his stomach, twisting the flesh asunder as he could only scream, before all went dark.

And thus ended the life of Zog the Knife..the first, in a long, terrible list of those to face the wrath of one certain man.

And with this death, came the rise of one man, one dark, terrible man with a deadly lust for revenge and blood against those that denied him death.

 _This is the rise of the Gravewalker._

 _And this is the story of those who oppose him._

 _ **End Chapter 1**_


End file.
